Chapter 7: Horoscopes are BS

That was a clean cut.

Sasori drew the scalpel away, silently marveling at the wistful clench of torn flesh around the tool's blade, the unravelling and snapping of bloodied tissue. His satisfaction manifested into something more than his signature neutrality allowed — a slight smile, as the gleam of bone grew apparent beneath his gloved fingers.

His puppet-to-be was docile under the spell of his newly-made anaesthetic. Just three months ago, they used to writhe and scream. Sasori would not mind making art out of dead bodies, yet the transformation process required vessels to be awake, and his poison killed in too short of a time for him to perform the surgery to a level of finesse sufficient for his liking.

After making sure his victim's scalp remained split open with two dozens of clips and a retractor system, Sasori resumed the butchering. His free hand trailed down from the victim's skull to press on the surgical drape, his occupied one carving through bone. The saw steered immaculate lines across the white surface.

In the span of a few seconds, a portion of the skull was successfully removed.

Sasori breathed out a sigh of relief. The quiescence of the room allowed for productive work hours, but at the same time, the overbearing respite it offered empowered the heart to run wild, to beat loudly in his chest. Unknown emotions bubbled up inside his gut. Sasori put the piece of skull aside and drove a pair of forceps into a crevice on his victim's brain.

Squelchy sounds worsened in tune with the prying acts of his instrument, but this mild annoyance couldn't rival what he felt then, upon the glint of his own brain, hot and wet and perfectly fitted in his 15-year-old palm. There were few things as frightening as having your everything — intelligence, memories, emotions, and feelings, all bundled up in your grip.

And yet he failed.

The moment Sasori woke up from the life-changing surgery, what came first wasn't relief. It was despair to learn that half of him was still distastefully, pathetically, painfully human. No matter how much he tried to disregard the truth, the truth sneered at him.

With the shiny silver forceps in his hand, Sasori searched for traces of chakra among slices of flesh. The first and second gate should be on the two opposite hemispheres of the brain, and once he had got their locations down, he could commence mapping his patient's chakra pathway system, focusing on finer details. The next steps: sealing, then skinning, then finally discarding the human shell in favor of a stronger, more durable, and artistic vessel.

It was hard to retain concentration throughout such a convoluted process, though Sasori's puppet body promised infinite stamina. He never had to worry about over-exertion, never had to pause mid-way to meet his bodily needs or wipe the sweat off his laden forehead. Still, the mind was a league of its own.

Recent days had been upsetting, to say the least, and 'upsetting' was a strong word to be used by someone like Sasori. He had buried himself in work, undeserving work even, to stop himself from visualizing the embrace of the Yotsuki girl's parents over her shoulders and how his hands — the hands that never shook — regressed to their primeval human-ness in response to such a sight.

The worst part was that his spectator was Deidara. Deidara with spontaneity in his veins and emotions on his sleeves. He had tested Sasori's patience enough, but when an incident as humiliating as that occurred, of course, he wouldn't let it go. He had probably waited all his life for a chance to watch Sasori's mask slip. Sasori knew long ago he had let his guard down too much, but that prior knowledge didn't ease the burn.

It was funny how Sasori once liked the idea of he and Deidara being companions. He saw in the brat a glimpse of Komushi's clinginess, a resemblance of his childhood naivety.

But what was he thinking?

The first gate of opening, check. The second gate of healing, done. Sasori marked their locations down on a large piece of paper with a bloody fingertip before grabbing his tool again.

Then he thought back to their first casual interaction, and how Deidara had initiated, complimenting him on a beaver he had listlessly roasted by the campfire. It was an action bred from pure boredom, and his dish must have tasted revolting at best. Now Sasori understood. Who would praise a human-puppet who hadn't eaten or cooked since he was fifteen for his cooking skills, other than someone with ulterior motives?

The more pieces Sasori put together, the more vulnerable he realized he was. He might be a master at killing, but Deidara with his social nature made an excellent manipulator.

Sasori sighed. A tip of his rage-driven forceps had busted through the wall of nerve fibres. Blood leaked from the crevices; the surgery was ruined.

"Stupid." He threw the tool on the floor.

The whole situation was taxing. Sasori had grown sick of feeling human, of the disgust that weaved into his core whenever he strayed close to showing weakness. But there was no other way. His core was a combination of his brain and heart, and there was no way he could reprogram himself to dispose of emotions—

Unless—

Sasori looked at the wreck of a brain underneath, a light igniting in his eyes.

Unless.

Sasori packed his trip to the library.


Deidara exited the library.

The earlier downpour was harsh on his footwear and the Land of Waves' well-traveled route. Deidara sloshed through the road in soaked sandals, away from the town library that had served as his shelter from the lashing rain. He had long overstayed his welcome.

Deidara tug at the strap of his bag, freshly bought with his mission money, then took out an equally fresh container scroll. For someone who was used to travelling light, scrolls turned out to be surprisingly convenient, and Kisame's bequeathed adornment wouldn't benefit from swimming free in his pocket. From the scroll, a piece of paper materialized amid smoke.

"Mending Broken Bridges – This Week Only – Book a Consultation with World-touring Love Expert and Fortune Teller UNMEI-SAMA!", the paper read. Sitting in the center was a mysterious bearded man with half of his face in shadow.

"Really, Kisame?" Deidara groaned. "You came back just to hand me this?"

He tossed the embarrassing, vomit-inducing poster on the ground, gave it some petty kicks, and strutted ahead. Kisame was insane for thinking he would fall for this stupid trick. A world-class shinobi as Deidara could never consult such an obscure name for advice. An artist of his calibre refused to confide in someone with a lack of taste so apparent in the advertisement of his business.

The sky hadn't quite cleared, and given the current rainy season, the poster would soon crumble under the force of a few days' showers. Deidara needed to leave soon, but his next stop remained undecided. He had stayed here for two weeks already. Two weeks of relentless training. Two weeks of not seeing him.

The thought stung a little. This sense of alienation was common at the beginning of their partnership: being at their respective places, doing their thing, getting together only at the chime of Leader's calls. At some point, they had reached a silent consensus: to celebrate individuality in the company of the other.

Now, they were back at the starting point.

Deidara's mood had turned foul by the time he bumped into an obstacle in the middle of his walk. He glared at the obtrusive lamp post; plastered on it was the same smiley face of a certain love expert and fortune teller with his atrocious beard.

"Oh, fuck m—"


"Your name, please?"

"Call me Bakahatsu," Deidara said while covering his face. "I'm here to see Unmei-sama."

"Doesn't 'Bakahatsu' mean explosion?"

"Doesn't being a receptionist mean you just take people's information and not stick your nose into their business?"

"Alright then…" The girl shifted from one foot to another. Her hood covered everything but the artificial smile on her lips. "Bakahatsu-san, have you made a reservation?"

"I…" Deidara hesitated. "haven't."

"Well, consider yourself lucky. There are 30 minutes left until the next customer arrives," she replied and held her notepad closer to her chest. "Your payment, please?"

After fumbling with his collection of scrolls long enough for the receptionist girl to stare daggers, Deidara finally found the one he stored his wealth in. It was at times like this that he wished he and his partner hadn't been apart, so Sasori could take care of the finances and he wouldn't have to carry along a shitload of money. All thoughts aside, he retrieved one thousand ryo and paid for the service with blatant reluctance.

"This is really expensive even for someone like me. It'd better be good," Deidara said, watching the receptionist's face brim with joy as her fingers flicked through the fat stash of money.

Unmei-sama's workplace was a small tent set up at the street corner, with an askew wood board hung at the top as a welcome sign. Hard to believe that a world-touring expert worked in a place like this. Still, Deidara's suspicion had no more time to boil as he was soon ushered inside.

The receptionist held open the door curtain as he stepped into the dimly lit space. "By the way, Bakahatsu-san," she whispered, and the touch of the curtain pulled back the hood she was wearing just enough to reveal a pale blue eye. In the penumbra of the room, through the tiny gap of light separating Unmei-sama's realm and the outside world, Deidara saw blonde bangs framing half of the girl's face — a hairstyle similar to his.

"Nice hair." She smiled and closed the curtain.

Enamored by the compliment, Deidara turned around to meet the so-called Unmei-sama, who was sitting behind a table with his fingers entangled in front of his face. The small tent was illuminated by semi-darkness. There was a sole lamp in the shape of a skull on the table along with a slew of decorations that tried too hard to appear menacing.

"You're Unmei-sama?" Deidara asked as he took a seat across from the man.

"Yes," replied Unmei-sama. He was also wearing a hooded cloak, but Deidara could tell he was young from the little view offered.

"You don't look like the picture," Deidara said. "Where did your beard go, yeah?"

"That wasn't me on the poster." Unmei-sama glided a cup of tea towards Deidara. "It'd be dangerous if someone finds out my identity. You know, famous people problems."

Deidara doubted the safeness of accepting a drink from a stranger, so he waited for Unmei-sama to pour his own cup before taking a careful sip. "You sure are full of yourself. But for a world-famous figure, I guess it's understandable."

"You bet." Unmei-sama flashed Deidara a bright smile, almost too bright. Then he stood up and ordered, "Sit still. I'm going to summon the holy spirit to channel your vipassana trikonasana."

The spirit must have spoken in an ancient language or something, since what Unmei-sama said made absolutely no sense. Deidara's sanity cracked with every moment he spent dumbfounded in his seat, listening to a crazy man spitting strictly gibberish and spraying him with holy water that may or may have not smelled too much like spoiled soda. He didn't know clairvoyants had to go through such a complicated ritual.

"The spirit told me that you're quite a guy of fashion and style!" Unmei-sama hollered after he was done. "You put a lot of emphasis on how you present yourself to the world. You believe building a strong personal image is key to leading a successful life trajectory. Er, there's this… artistic?" he paused to think for a second, and Deidara lit up knowing what to come. "There's an artistic aura surrounding you!"

Deidara gasped. "How do you know that?"

"And, and, does anyone in your family take a special liking to explosions?"

"I do."

"I just knew it! The angel spirit said there's a strong bombastic energy from around you as well, but it's you all along."

A wide grin formed on Deidara's face. "I think you know what you're doing, yeah."

"Well, I am the medium of hakunamatata after all." Unmei-sama returned the gesture and looked at Deidara, who was slowly getting used to his blabbering nonsense. Then he took Deidara's hand. "Now I'll give you a palm reading to predict your life pa—"

"As much of a talented fortune teller as you are, I'm not here for that, you know?" Deidara shook his head. "I want to ask about the relationship… thing."

"Of course, that'll come after this."

"I don't need it. Just help me with the other stuff."

"Let me do it for you. It's my specialty." The grip of Unmei-sama on his wrist was stronger than that of a normal person.

Deidara struggled a little but decided it wasn't worth it and surrendered another portion of his time to goddamned palmistry.

"—You see, the crisscross pattern at the beginning of your heart line here indicates that you've had a dark time in the past, but you've risen above the circumstance with your strength and is now in a happy place after a process of self-healing. While the cut in your life string shows that a big change is coming your way—"

"Alright, alright, can we move on?"

"Let me get my cards—"

"No."

"The cards are —"

"Fuck the cards." Deidara slammed his fist on the table. "Just get to the important part. Please."

"Fine," Unmei-sama muttered something under his breath and accepted defeat. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking at Deidara in a disinterested manner. "So, what's your problem?"

Deidara's words were in a whisper. "I'm… having an argument with someone."

"Someone you love?"

"No!"

"Then why did you sign up for a love consult, for God's sake?"

"A little," mumbled Deidara. "I like them a little. Don't make me say it again."

"Conflict, huh?" Unmei-sama leaned back and began staring at nothing in particular. "Apologize and buy them a gift or something."

"You call yourself an expert with that half-assed advice?"

"Hey, I may not be a nutella casanova, but I know my stuff!" he barked. "Specifically, how big is this argument?"

"Well, they threw a sword at me."

"That's… not good, but people express anger differently. There still may be ways to save this—" Unmei-sama's eyes flicked to the abandoned deck of cards next to him. "—with my cards! Hey, hey, put that down. I'm only joking. What did you do to cause this argument?"

"I said something, I guess. And they took it personally."

"Oh, so it's not your fault?"

"Totally not my fault."

"Then it's their fault!"

"Damn right!" Deidara cleared his throat after raised his voice a little too much. "Anyway, although it's not my fault, now they refuse to talk to me, so I need a solution."

"A crush, you say?" Unmei-sama rubbed his nonexistent beard in deep thought. "Ino — A trusted advisor once told me, to make your crush reciprocate your feelings, you need to be a little mean to them."

"What do you mean, mean?"

"If it's not your fault, you shouldn't be the one apologizing, right?" He clapped his hands. "Wait, are you a Taurus?"

"Is that one of the horoscopes thing? Yeah, I think I am?"

"I knew it! Your loving Taurus nature makes you think you're the one responsible, but it's them who should apologize. Give them the cold shoulders. Be mad at them back. Let them taste their own medicine!"

It happened faster than one's eyes could see. In retrospect, however, Deidara couldn't understand why he failed to recognized such an obvious trick. From outside, the receptionist screamed. From inside, Unmei-sama cowered. The curtain behind Deidara flew open and a figure stormed in, rattling the place in a tone of voice far from what expected of a delicate-looking girl with hair the brightest shade of cherry blossoms. She caught Unmei-sama by the ear.

"Naaaruto!" she yelled. "How many times did I tell you to stop with this scam? Inari and I have been looking everywhere for you. We need to visit their graves before it's too late."

Everything faded out.

Did she just say scam?

The two of them argued their way out of the exit, leaving Deidara alone with the setup meant to draw money out of him.

When he stepped outside, the receptionist was also nowhere to be seen. A thousand ryo for a bunch of bullshit information. Deidara would have blown up the whole village if it had not been for his need to keep a low profile.

"I didn't know you're interested in those sorts of things."

When Deidara passed by a corner, he was met with the pair of blazing eyes he had sworn to extinguish. A stroke of unbelievable luck. Itachi was there, leaning against the wall of a building inside a small alley.

"You just saved my shitty day." Deidara threw himself at Itachi, but he dodged. Of course.

"It's not wise to go into those places," Itachi scoffed. "Not to mention that you used an alias of 'Bakahatsu' of all things."

"Have you been following me?"

"Don't be stupid."

"Whatever, it doesn't matter." Deidara licked his lips. "You don't know how great your death is going to be, Itachi. I've prepared a feast just for you."

"I won't die under your hands."

"Well, I'm sorry to say that you'll have no choice."

Deidara launched at Itachi again, all teeth bared, clay bombs ready, shreds of rationality lost, and flew straight into a murder of red-eyed crows. Of course.


Deidara had never imagined, even in his wildest dreams, that an absurd piece of advice given by a pubescent scammer could work. His jaw was on the floor as the door to his room flew open, followed by the rude entrance of a semi-annoyed Sasori. The lock should have been on.

He patched his wounded dignity swiftly and readjusted himself in his seat. Focus, Deidara thought, fumbling with the clay in his grasp. Focus on your work and ignore him.

Sasori's footsteps echoed around the room. He seemed to be making special efforts to be noisy today, for the normal Sasori had the gait of a cat. Deidara coughed as a means of self-distraction, trying his best not to stir. He put the clay down, picked up a pen, and scrawled squiggly lines on his sketch. What was I drawing again?

This game of cat and mouse had dragged out for days on end. Deidara had excelled in refusing every of Sasori's initiations, every "Hey" and "Talk to me" and malicious stares and poison-tail flexes, and for once it felt good. But not completely good, because part of the goodness was accounted to his greatest enemy. Deidara looked down at the sketch and remembered. He was trying to develop a new model for his art.

Deidara felt a weight leaning against the side of the desk he was sitting in and knew it was Sasori. He didn't look up. The pages of the desk calendar in front of him fluttered, calling for his attention, punctuating the dead silence. July 6th. Only a month or so left before the Akatsuki's annual meeting, and their main hideout was near this place, too. Leader had summoned Deidara and Sasori for a brief mission in the same night Deidara returned embittered by Unmei-sama's fraud and Itachi's cockiness, and they later retreated to this inn up north of Rivers Country.

"I need to speak to you," Sasori said.

"No."

"Are you working on a new project?"

"No, not going to work."

"Nice drawing."

"Not even that."

If Deidara had any doubt regarding his partner's way of mending things, Sasori proved him otherwise. Sasori turned around and dropped a package on the desk, lips sewn together in his characteristic quietness. Deidara's head snapped up at the outpouring of homeyness, the outflow of ambrosial aroma from the box.

"Now you're bribing me with food?" Deidara raised a skeptical brow but couldn't resist taking the box into his hands. He opened the lid to feast his eyes on a delicious dozen of fat and crunchy bakudan-yaki, his favorite dessert. "From Lady Harakiri's too? I thought she closed the business, yeah."

"I have my way around things," said Sasori.

"I wonder what your spy thinks when you make them hold a knife at an old lady's throat while she makes bakudan-yaki for me," Deidara swiveled in his chair to look at Sasori. "I like it, thanks."

"It's nothing like you imagine."

"I doubt it," Deidara said in answering challenge.

The latent tension stretching between them from last month's argument started to wane, and Sasori, too, was tame enough not to pursue further banter. He walked to the bed opposite Deidara's desk and sat down.

"It's fun seeing you so clueless, danna." Deidara savoured the heavenly feeling in his mouth as he bit into a piece of Sasori's bribe. "So, what is it that you want to talk about?"

"I've come to the conclusion that I'm indeed an incomplete piece of work, a puppet with a heart," Sasori said with a tone too straightforward to be normal.

"Took you long enough." Deidara snorted, then he had to prevent himself from choking on his food by stopping to swallow before speaking again. "I don't think that's a bad thing, though. Doesn't that, like, make you unique?"

"I'm not excusing how disrespectful you talked to me that day." Sasori's glare was short-lived. "But I'm not looking for another argument, and yes, I know it's not a bad thing. Emotions are not a bad thing."

"That's my point, yeah?"

"But most of them are." Sasori's expression stiffened in correspondence to Deidara's fading grin. "Humanity in its essence is not bad. Intelligence, the ability to create, change, adapt, reflect on the past, analyze the present, make plans for the future… Instinctual responses like anger towards disrespect, pride, sense of achievement. They compensate for the shortcomings of animals and inanimate puppets, but —" He gestured to his heart. "-emotions like love and happiness and sadness? They only drag me down."

Never had Deidara seen Sasori so alive. He was loud in the broadest definition of loud, and he was talking with his every muscle, and his eyes were incandescent with the ardor of a true artist. For a moment Deidara found himself enthralled by the look, but soon an unsettling realization crept in. Sasori had come up with a crazy plan. The moment their eyes locked, Deidara knew he could not say anything to change his partner's mind.

"Think about it. How amazing would it be if I become a perfect human-puppet chimera?"

"How is that even possible?" Deidara groaned, hoping to drive some sense into Sasori. "You can't cherry-pick emotions to keep. You either have them all or nothing."

"What if I can?" Sasori got up and paced around the room, seemingly restless from over-excitement. "I… did some research on brain anatomy. A lot. There are separate parts of the brain responsible for certain emotions. It's the same principle with genjutsu and how you use it to manipulate people's perceptions."

"You shouldn't tamper with things like that."

"I've been tampering with the human body for the past decade! There's little chance of me failing to pull this off."

As Sasori with his dizzying pacing came close to the desk, Deidara rose from his seat and grabbed him by the arm. He stared at Sasori in defeat.

Defeated he was, from the very beginning of this little game.

"A new version of danna, yeah?" Deidara gulped, doing his regular work: pushing away all qualms, all inner voices, all badly-wanted objections, even the sinking feeling in his stomach, and nodded. "Sounds interesting."

"The problem is that I need to know how emotions really work," Sasori said, unbothered by Deidara's grip. "Their triggers, methods of identification. I'll need those for future experiments, but you know me. I can't do that on my own."

"Why do you think that I'll agree to help?"

"I know you won't. That's why I made it into a deal."

Deidara stepped back. "This doesn't sound good."

"Do you know they're hosting an art festival in the town center?" Sasori turned to the window and so did Deidara. The parade of village people lugging wood planks and building supplies outside for the past few days suddenly made sense. "It's essentially a contest. Participants put up their own booths to display their crafts. Then they are given points by judges, plus votes from guests."

"You want us to join?"

"If I get more points, you will help me with my new project." It was more of a command than a suggestion.

"And if I win?"

"I'll do whatever you want."

Deidara wished he had never left that door open, relished that box of bakudan-yaki, drawn a tattoo on Sasori at the cost of Sasori's sanity. But again, everything had led to this.

What were they, anyway?A human and a half-human. A glutton for time, chasing after an everlasting life and a suicidal enthusiast, striving towards death. If they were not to be separated by age, it would be by Deidara with his ultimate art or Sasori with his ambitious scheme.

"Deal?" Sasori asked, extending his hand.

Making a deal with Sasori was like making a deal with the devil. The human never emerged victorious.

Deidara didn't have to accept the deal. There were no Leader's orders involved, no pinky promises, no obligations, no poison senbon at his neck. He could turn down the offer and pray for Sasori's failure, that he still had a chance, but what would that make him? How could he ignore the passion in a fellow artist's eyes? How could he not help? How could he not want to see Sasori attain his dream?

Most of all, how could he refuse the chance to make Sasori feel more? Watching his shell slowly crack and break, that had been Deidara's motive since the start of it all.

"The first step of dehumanizing yourself is studying what makes you human," Deidara said.

He reached for Sasori's hand, knowing with every fibre of his body and soul that he shouldn't do it, and did it anyway.

"Deal."


A/N:

If you managed to figure out it was Naruto before the reveal, a big round of applause to you! This was such a fun chapter to write.